


The Ground We Stand On

by beforeclocks



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-01
Updated: 2012-04-22
Packaged: 2017-11-02 21:27:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/373513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beforeclocks/pseuds/beforeclocks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My version of a post-Reichenbach/series three fic. </p>
<p>Sherlock had planned to do this alone, have it over and done with in a few weeks, maybe a couple of months at a push, but then things don't quite go according to plan and Mycroft Holmes can't help but get involved.</p>
<p>Title is that of the <a href="http://theforgottensense.tumblr.com/post/20299380209">Hawksley Workman song</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

_It's so cold here and I miss you.  
And I can't help feeling broken.  
I treat myself like I'm not fragile.  
Like there's no care to be taken._  
Hawksley Workman - The Ground We Stand On

Sherlock stood in front of the mirror, staring at his reflection but not really seeing it. 

He has been there for half an hour, thinking. He's been preparing for this for three years. Three long, stressful, monotonous, heartbreaking years. Hardly an hour went by where he didn't think about what might happen in this next hour. He has considered hundreds, if not thousands, of different possible scenarios, some horrendously bad and some unbelievably good. But he'd never considered this moment right now, the proverbial calm before the storm. He'd never even dreamed that he could feel this nervous, stood in the room he hadn't been in for almost fifteen years.

As he continued to stare past the image of himself, there was a sharp tap on the door and the lock clicks softly open. Sherlock can see Mycroft out of the corner of his eye, looking worried, as if Sherlock is planning on going into battle.

And maybe he is. Though he doesn't see how this battle could even be one hundredth as dangerous as the one he's been fighting for the past three years. Or at least, that's what he's telling himself.

"Sherlock?"

Mycroft's voice is too neutral. Sherlock tilts his head slightly, to show he's listening. 

"Are you sure you should be doing this?"

"Don't-"

"I'm not," Mycroft interrupts quickly. "I'm not. I just... is now the right time?"

Sherlock turns slowly, towards the bed where a number of shirts and jackets are laid out, all pressed to perfection. Not the way Sherlock usually treats his clothes. But that's what comes with accepting Mycroft's hospitality. Although, Sherlock wonders if it's technically 'accepting' if you wouldn't have had a choice anyway.

"If not now then when?"

Mycroft sighs, lifting a shirt so can sit on the bed. He runs his thumb absently mindedly over the thick fabric of one of the cuffs. 

"You shouldn't rush into this."

Sherlock snorts, snatching the shirt from Mycroft's grip.

"Three years, Mycroft. Three. You have no idea what that's like. To have gone so long without the thing you have come to depend on."

"You sounds like you're talking about something else entirely," Mycroft smirks .

Sherlock kicks him on the shin, hard. Childish, he knows. Mycroft's face drops, but he doesn't rub his leg even though Sherlock knows it's hurting him and there will be a bruise tomorrow. He throws the shirt onto the floor, in spite.

"Sherlock," Mycroft warns, nostrils flaring. 

"You will not change my mind, Mycroft." Sherlock briefly wonders who he is trying to convince.

"Please, Sherlock." His voice has softened again. "At least wait until tomorrow."

"I can't." Sherlock knows he's whining, but he no longer cares. There once was a time when appearing so weak in front of his brother - in front of anyone - would have bothered him, but being rescued by said brother when you're lying face down in the gutter, bleeding to what you are sure is an inevitable death will change your attitude somewhat.

"Why not?" Mycroft snaps. "Give me one good reason why it has to be today and I will unlock the door and never bother you again."

Even after everything, that sounds tormentingly appealing to Sherlock.

"I..." he tries. "I don't know!"

He throws himself to the floor, back against the wall, knees pulled up to his chest, head in his hands.

"It's just so hard, Mycroft." Sherlock's voice is trembling. "I want to go back so badly. I wish I'd never left, never jumped, never fucking met him. Some days it hurts so much it's as if my heart is being pulled apart and I don't know what to do."

"I know, Sherlock."

"No you don't!" Sherlock shouts, leaping to his feet, fists clenched. "You have no idea," he hissed.

Mycroft's expression doesn't falter, but his deep intake of breath can be heard in the otherwise silent room.

"You're right, I don't. I am finding it exceedingly hard to understand your emotions at the moment, but none the less, your answer to me question was not satisfactory, as you well know, and therefore, I will not be letting you out of this house."

Sherlock punches the wall. But even the searing pain is not enough to distract his mind.


	2. Chapter One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you read, I would like to state that I have taken a lot of artistic license with this chapter. I hope that any lack of plausibility doesn't impair your enjoyment of this chapter. I can assure you that all further chapters will not suffer from this problem. That being said, I tried to be as non-specific as I could, so that, hopefully, you can just ignore that which doesn't fully comply with physics.

"Goodbye John"

"Nope. Don't-"

Sherlock barely registered his own arm coming down, discarding the phone behind him. He would pick up a new one as soon as he was in Germany. He took a deep breath, steadied himself and heard John shout his name. For a whole second Sherlock considered not jumping; picking the phone back up and telling John that he was lying, he was real dammit and John should tell the whole world just how brilliantly clever he really was, instead of having them all believe he was a failure. A liar. The moment of hesitation passed and Sherlock was bringing his arms out in imitation of the Angel of the North, something Mycroft was sure to have a snide comment or two about. 

And then he was falling. Sherlock hadn't even considered this part. He knew (not just in theory, he hoped) what would happen at the end of the fall, but he hadn't been prepared for just how long it would take to reach that point. It gave him just long enough to begin to panic that his plan wouldn't work. Then, finally, his body impacted with the layers of used mattresses. He would've breathed a sigh of relief if he wasn't already preoccupied with squirting the blood he had extracted from himself the day before - best to be authentic in these matters - into his hair and over his face. Within seconds he was leaping out of the truck, pulling the rubber ball out of his pocket and lodging it under his armpit. He sprawled himself on the pavement, hardly daring to look around and check that no one had arrived on the scene yet. Thankfully, his plan seemed to still be going smoothly, meaning Jack had rightfully earned those three hundred pounds. Sherlock only hoped that John didn't fall on his bad shoulder, but there wasn't time to think about that now because people were starting to rush over to him. _Must remember to keep eyes open._ A man touched his shoulder and two nurses were already there, as well as the surge of pedestrians. But then there was John, and Sherlock felt a surge of relief he really hoped didn't show on his face. 

"Let me through," John was pleading, and Sherlock heard his voice hitch at the sight of the blood running toward the road - _nice final touch there_ Sherlock though to himself and then instantly felt like a bastard for doing this to John. John's hand on Sherlock's wrist came as a slight shock. He should have anticipated it; John was a doctor, after all. Too quickly, John was being dragged away and Sherlock wanted to scream at the women to just let John confirm to himself that Sherlock really was dead. Luckily, at the point, Sherlock was being lifted onto a stretcher and hurried into Barts, away from the eyes of the innocent members of the public. 

The next few minutes went past in a bit of blur, though Sherlock would never admit it. Hearing himself pronounced dead was a weird experience, even for someone expecting it. Eventually, Sherlock was left alone with the doctor, who he really hoped was the one that Molly had given Sherlock’s money to. Otherwise he was going to get a nasty shock when Sherlock would be forced to move the hand that was starting to cramp under his body.

"Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock blinked his eyes a couple of times to re-moisten them, before wiping a hand over his face. And, ah, he'd rather forgotten about the amount of blood he had applied. He really hoped they'd let him use a shower before leaving.

"For a moment there, I thought you might actually have been dead,” the doctor chuckled, uncomfortably. “You're a remarkably good actor, you know," the doctor continued.

"Yes, I've been told. Is Molly not here yet?" Sherlock asked tersely. The doctor looked taken aback, but thankfully stopped trying to make small talk with Sherlock.

"No, Mr Holmes. I'm going to take you down to the mortuary now. Miss Hopper is waiting for you there."

"You're going to take me? Surely that isn't normal protocol."

"No, but considering the circumstances, we really thought it best..."

"Of course, of course. Let's get on with it then." Sherlock lay back down on the trolley and allowed the doctor to cover him with the heavy sheet.

It took less than five minutes to get the morgue, and they luckily met no one in the hallways on the way. In fact, the hospital seemed eerily quiet.

"Here we are, Mr Holmes," the doctor announced, pulling the sheet off Sherlock's frame.

"Thank you very much for your cooperation," Sherlock said, brushing the creases out of his trousers and trying to ignore Molly's expression, from where she stood only a few feet away. "I should think you can now afford that divorce you've been putting off for, frankly, for too long. She's had at least three affairs since you married her," Sherlock added, just because he could.

"Wha-? I don't know what you th-" he stammered as Molly ushered him into the hallway, looking apologetic. 

By the time Molly had shut the door on the protesting doctor and came back to stand in front of Sherlock, Sherlock was stripping himself of his ruined shirt and trousers - he hoped he'd be able to save the coat as he was really rather fond of it - and looking around the morgue expectantly. Molly looked away, her cheeks flushed. 

"You've got my clothes?" Sherlock didn't have time for Molly's ridiculously over the top reaction to seeing him undressing.

"Oh! Yes, yes, of course," she squeaked, scurrying over to the cupboard and pulling out a black bag. She handed it to Sherlock, still looking away pointedly. Sherlock rolled his eyes and resisted the urge to take off his pants. 

"Thank you very much for your help, Molly," he began, once he was dressed in a pair of jogging bottoms, a baggy hoodie and a dark baseball cap. It was almost too inconspicuous. "I am eternally grateful for everything you've done."

"You're welcome. I can't even begin to imagine what you would have done if I hadn't agreed."

"Hmm," Sherlock agreed, pulling on a pair of trainers.

"What are you going to do now? Do you need a place to stay for tonight?"

"I'm going to Europe first." No point being too specific. Or offering any more information than he needed to.

"Oh, okay. Well, good luck, Sherlock. With everything. If you need anything else..."

"Thank you. I'm sure I will be fine."

"Of course," Molly nodded.

Wasting no more time, Sherlock pulled Molly into a firm hug, but before she could respond, he had spun on his heel and was out of the door, striding past a grieving family. No one spared him a second glance as he headed out the front doors. 

\---

John's whole body felt numb. He heard himself reassure one of the nurses who had gathered around Sherlock that he was all right, even as the other nurse supported most of his body weight. All he could think about was Sherlock. How Sherlock had looked as he stood on the rooftop, how his voice had cracked when John tried to move forward and join him, about how he had stepped off that ledge, arms out like some sort of angel, and then plummeted to the ground. John wanted to follow Sherlock into the hospital but he knew they wouldn't let him, no matter how many times he told them he was a doctor. He was clearly going into shock and, to be honest, he was pretty sure his legs wouldn't support him if he tried to walk right now anyway.

The nurses let him crouch on the hard pavement as the crowd that had formed was ushered away. It wasn't long before John heard the tell-tale siren of a police car approaching. The two nurses tried to coax John into standing upright, so they could move him away from the pool of blood.

"We'd better take him inside," he heard one say to the other, but he wasn't fully concentrating because at that moment the police car he'd heard was pulling up, half on the pavement, and Lestrade was jumping out of the drivers side.

"Shit, John. Sherlock-"

John nodded at Lestrade's unfinished question, and Lestrade swore again, more forcefully this time. 

Lestrade's companion was getting out of the car, bringing police tape with him. He was a man John recognised by appearance, but not by name. He began cordoning off the area where Sherlock's blood was still spreading.

"You'd better go and get treated for shock, John,” said Lestrade.

"No," John snapped. "I'm fine. I'll be fine. I'll be much more use here, giving you a statement."

Lestrade looked at him warily but didn't argue any further. The nurses looked between the two men nervously. John knew he should explain the situation, but he didn't feel like being polite right now.

By this point, a further two police cars had arrived and the crowd on the other side of the police tape was beginning to grow. The police were going to have their jobs cut out keeping people away from this scene, especially once word got out that this was Sherlock Holmes' suicide.

John felt suddenly sick at the thought of this being _Sherlock's_ crime scene. This blood only painted the concrete because _Sherlock_ had jumped from the roof. 

"Actually Lestrade," John said loud enough to be heard over the conversation Lestrade was having with another officer a metre or so away. "I think I'm just going to go home now."

One of the nurses began to protest but John stopped her.

"I'm a doctor. I have a landlady who will almost certainly be at home. And Lestrade here will no doubt be checking in on me soon, when he comes to collect my statement." John looked at Lestrade pleadingly until he nodded. John turned back to the nurses.

"There, see. Everything is fine. I would just like to go home, sit down and have a nice cup of tea," John said, sounding a lot more in control than he felt.

The nurses looked reluctant, but released their grips on John's forearms. John felt wobbly for a couple of seconds, but then his head cleared and he walked down towards the main road without looking at anyone.

He managed to hail the first cab he saw. John gave the address and lent his head back on the headrest, closing his eyes. His muscles still felt tense and his breathing definitely wasn't as regular as usual. He wiped roughly at the tears that began to trickle down his cheeks without his permission. He didn't notice when the cab pulled out outside 221.

"You all right?" the cabbie asked, sounding genuinely concerned.

John shot upright, being pulled from his thoughts with force.

"Yeah, yeah, fine. Thanks," he replied, already halfway out the cab as he chucked twice the fare at the driver.

He stumbled on the steps and then fumbled with the key a few times before finally getting the door open. The builder that had been in the hallway earlier was nowhere to be seen, but before John had even put one foot in the building, Mrs Hudson was rushing over to him, enveloping him into a fierce hug.

"That nice inspector phoned," she told him, sounding collected even as tears welled in her eyes. "Oh, John dear."

John allowed himself to be held, wrapping his arms around Mrs Hudson as the rain blew in through the still open door. John breathed into her hair as the tears began to fall freely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea of the rubber ball Sherlock had been playing with being used to stop his pulse was something I read on Tumblr (but I unfortunately can't remember the source. Sorry). I'm not 100% on the accuracy of this, but it sounds plausible enough, and fit with my account of Sherlock's fall. Basically, I just wanted the wrist John holds to be Sherlock's and I couldn't see any other way of achieving that. I am aware that the timing is all off, and I am sure that Sherlock would not be able to get away with it once inside the hospital without paying a LOT of people off. So let's just use our imaginations, yeah.
> 
> Anyway, that you very much for reading. If there are any glaring mistakes, please let me know!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading. I don't know how quickly I will be updating this but there definitely will be updates and I will try to make them as regular as possible.


End file.
